


Night Work

by dansunedisco



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Background Relationships, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Drinking, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pining, Stripper Bellamy Blake, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“No. No way,” Clarke says, when she sees where they’ve ended up. She digs her heels into the pavement, but Raven’s grip on her wrist is strong, almost too strong for someone who’s downed almost twice as much as Clarke has tonight. No small feat.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“It’s just a strip club!” she says. The neon sign above the building flashes in steady bursts, gaudy and red; the steady thump of bass pulses out when the doors swing open. “And you promised, Clarke. You said, and I quote, ‘when exams are over, I will do whatever you want’. And I want to go inside this fine establishment.”</i>
</p><p>Or: Clarke meets Bellamy at a strip club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [elschaaf](http://elschaaf.tumblr.com) for the beta help. This probably would've languished in google docs for a very long time without her help!

“No. No fucking way,” Clarke says, when she sees where they’ve ended up. She digs her heels into the pavement, but Raven’s grip on her wrist is strong, almost _too_ strong for someone who’s downed almost twice as much as Clarke has tonight. No small feat.

“It’s just a strip club!” she says. The neon sign above the building flashes in steady bursts, gaudy and red; the steady thump of bass pulses out when the doors swing open. “And you _promised_ , Clarke. You said, and I quote, ‘when exams are over, I will do whatever you want’. And I want to go inside this fine establishment.”

“Things I said when I was three days sleep deprived is trash, you know that, and throwing them back in my face is immoral,” she says, but allows Raven to tug her to the entrance anyway. The bouncer checks their IDs, barely a cursory glance, really, and ushers them inside with a careless wave of his hand. It’s a Thursday night, and the poster plastered to the wall outside boldly declares tonight ‘The Co-ed Special’. Raven and Clarke might not be sorority sisters, but they fit the bill of preferred clientele.

They pass through a dark, black-lit tunnel, the ceiling covered in glow in the dark stars and paint, just to reach a short queue. The music is even louder inside, some thumping pop song Clarke doesn’t remember the name of going straight through her chest. A raucous cheer goes up at the chorus and she groans. “Are they really calling this place Renegades?”

Raven turns to her, teeth glowing unnaturally white. “Stop being such a stiff.”

She groans again. “Puns, really?”

“Come on, Griffin. We’re here to relax.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Maybe see some hotties twerk on stage.”

“Sounds like a blast,” she says dryly.

Raven folds her arms across her chest, one hundred percent business. “Remember when you used to be fun?”

“Freshman year,” she counters, then backtracks, “I’m still fun.”

Raven frees her hand, gesturing around the club as if to say _then what the fuck is your problem?_

And, really, what is Clarke’s problem? She sighs messily, because even she can recognize when she’s being a brat—after all, she _did_ promise Raven she would celebrate. “Fine, but we’re getting food afterwards. Lots of bacon. Waffles, too.”

“Deal. And, because I am a saint and I love you… we can ditch after a few songs if you really, really don’t like it.”

They shake on it.

They pass through the line quickly after that, and get their hands stamped after another, more thorough, ID check.

Raven throws her arm around Clarke’s shoulders and leads her straight into the pit, looking much, much too devious for her own good.

“This is gonna be awesome. Mark my words,” she says, just in time for Clarke to catch sight of the dancer currently on stage drop into an impressive straddle.

_Holy fuck._ Clarke takes a hot yoga class three times a week, and even she can’t do that shit.

 

-

 

The first thing Clarke does is make a beeline for the bar. She’s not a prude by any stretch, but there’s something about going to a strip club (a strip club named Renegades, for god’s sake) that makes her thirsty. For a strong drink, that is. She orders a Long Island for Raven and some vodka energy drink mix that might literally stop her heart for herself, and heads to the show floor.

There are three stages set up inside; a main set that’s now empty, and two smaller ones that look like they’re for private parties. Some guy in sinfully tight red briefs, suspenders, and a fireman’s hat is doing his thing on one, grinding down on a girl who’s wearing a plastic crown and a feathered boa. A bachelorette party, Clarke thinks, cheeks heating up when she realizes she’s _definitely_ staring. Not that anyone is judging her for it.

She takes a long pull of her drink. It’s been a few months (okay, maybe more like a whole year) since she’s had the attention of anyone, let alone had sex, so she can’t be blamed for her wandering eye. She’s been drinking and they’re in raging hormones central. Plus, this is what they’re here for, to watch and enjoy, right?

They find a seat by the main stage, somehow snagging two chairs right in front. The place is packed, almost standing room only. The center lights dim a minute later, and the fog machine kicks in and the music starts up. Raven claps along with the rest of the crowd, unabashed in her enjoyment, and Clarke joins in, too.

A guy cuts through the fog, fully clothed in a cop uniform, and starts his routine. Clarke can’t help but laugh at the cheesiness--a stripper cop dancing to Ginuwine’s Pony is the very pinnacle of cheese--but there’s no denying that it’s _hot_. The best part is probably Raven’s reactions, her never-ending smile, the way she squirms in her seat, and alright, Clarke is having the best time she’s had in months.

She finishes her drink and orders another from the waitress making her rounds, and when Raven asks if she wants to leave two dancers later, she shakes her head.

“We can stay,” she says, rolling her eyes at Raven’s knowing smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Reyes knows best.”

“You said it, not me.”

 

-

 

She’s two more drinks in when she finally gives into peer pressure and starts sliding bills in the dancer’s outfits, much to Raven’s enjoyment, and she doesn’t even care that she’s going to have to live off ramen noodles for the next month to make up for the cash lost. It’s exhilarating, letting loose after being wound up for so long, and it’s easy to get caught up in the flow, the frenetic energy of the clientele rubbing off on her in ways they normally wouldn’t.

She’s thinking that it might be time to go--her poor bank account can’t take any more abuse--when a beat she definitely recognizes begins to play. It’s a marked difference from the extra sensual songs that have been on rotation since they got there, and the guy manning the DJ booth gets on the mic to say something about giving it up for Bellamy, but Clarke’s not really paying attention.

“Hey, we should probably go,” she half-yells at Raven, jerking her chin towards the way of the exit.

“No! You guys can’t go,” the girl next to them slurs, eyes wide and sincere, if a little glazed over. “Bellamy is, like, the infamous headliner. He’s just--”

Her words are drowned out by the rest of the crowd, voices surging up when this ‘infamous Bellamy’ takes his place on stage. Clarke expects to see some Channing Tatum look-a-like, but he’s--well, he’s not. This guy is tall, tanned and cut, dark hair curling around his ears, and he’s wearing some well-worn jeans, and a tight white tee; nothing special, no uniform or sparkly bow tie that a lot of the other dancers are wearing. She’s not really sure what warrants him a special intro, or the girl’s awestruck anecdote, and she’s ready to drag Raven up and out while they have the chance.

A minute later, Clarke is firmly glued to her seat and barely able to keep her mouth shut.

This guy is amazing, body moving in ways Clarke isn’t sure should be legal. Obscene is the only word that comes to mind. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in her veins, but she feels reckless and antsy, the squirm of embarrassment in her stomach at watching guys grinding down on the stage long gone, and this Bellamy guy is _doing_ itfor her. Hardcore.

She scoots to the edge of her seat, like it might help ease that tingling building tight at the base of her spine, and breathes out a choked, “Oh my god.”

It’s impossible that he hears her. The music is too loud to hear anything. But his eyes snap right onto hers. It feels like the air gets punched out of her lungs, and she bites her bottom lip, gaze bouncing between his gorgeous face and his undulating hips. There’s a dim thought lingering in the back of her mind that she would be jealous of his moves if she wasn’t so terribly, horrifyingly turned on by them.

He strips out of his shirt after a minute, revealing a flat stomach and a trim waist. His pants come off soon after, to the delighted shrieks of the audience. And when he gets down onto the stage floor and starts simulating the sort of sex Clarke’s only dreamed of having these past few months? That’s it. She’s a goner. Done.

“Saw something you like?” Raven asks, when the song comes to an end and Bellamy takes his leave, a lot of crumpled dollar bills richer. “Looks like you need a napkin for all that drool.”

“Shut up,” she says, but it comes out weak. “We should go.”

“Alright,” Raven agrees, “but I gotta use the bathroom first. Sit tight.”

Clarke does, but mostly because she’s not sure her legs will hold her up so soon after Bellamy’s show.

Except she should have known not to let Raven out of her sight, because she sees her chatting up the dancer—Bellamy—by the long bar, which, incidentally, is absolutely nowhere near the bathrooms. When his eyes swing towards Clarke, and Raven looks away towards the ceiling innocently, she knows she’s been had.

She drags her thumb across her throat when Bellamy turns away, and mouths “You’re dead to me” at Raven, who just waggles her fingers and disappear into the crowd without an ounce of shame.

Clarke groans, and awaits her fate.

 

-

 

“What’s your name?”

“Is my name relevant to what you’re about to do?” And, okay, maybe she doesn’t need to be so standoffish, but it’s practically second nature to brush off the dude-bros who use the same line on her at the regular bars, so she tacks on, “Clarke, for the record.”

She earns a smirk for that. Normally, she would be so over it, but this time? She’s not. Maybe it has something to do with the lingering attraction from his dance earlier, or the vodka heart-stoppers, but she settles back into her chair and he takes the cue, leaning into her personal space with a quirk of his eyebrows. It’s almost enough to make her reevaluate her life choices, the way he’s moving on her, over her, and she isn’t sure if she should be hellaciously embarrassed or incredibly turned on. Both could be appropriate, really, and she is _so_ going to kill Raven for this.

“Relax,” he whispers, right up against the shell of her ear, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. Maybe he does. Either way, his words don’t do much to relax her at all.

“I can stop anytime,” he offers and, despite that cocky smirk, he seems entirely genuine. Like he cares about her comfort level and--it’s actually really sweet.

She bites her lip, thinks about how much money both her and Raven bled tonight. She knows she doesn’t need to sit and suffer--Raven would understand if she needed an out, of course, she’s not an _animal_ \--but Clarke’s not _exactly_ suffering. Maybe there’s a little _too_ much enjoyment going on. “No, it’s fine,” she says. Then asks, “How much did my friend pay?”

“That’s between me and her, princess.”

“Princess?” she parrots, unimpressed. “Did you forget my name already?”

He laughs, a little huff of breath. “I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

“I bet you tell all the girls that.”

“The guys, too,” he says with a wink, “but only the ones that I like.”

“A little too early to know, isn’t it?”

The song switches over and he pauses over her, hovering for a beat too long. “You tell me.”

She stares up at him, heart pounding and pulse racing, and thinks _why not_? Why the hell not indeed?

 

-

 

If someone would’ve told Clarke she would be hooking up in the back alley of a strip club a few hours ago, she would’ve punched them straight in the throat. That being said, it doesn’t stop her from tangling her fingers into Bellamy’s hair and moaning like she’s some heroine in a dollar store bodice-ripper.

He’s got her pressed up against the brick wall, his hands on her waist, on her hips and thighs, and it’s just on the right side of exhilaration, enough to really get her blood pumping, and she feels like she’s on fire. It’s good, it’s great, and Clarke’s seriously debating the pros and cons of outdoor sex with a complete stranger (she has a condom in her purse, no big deal) when the back door bangs open.

They break away like they’ve been caught doing worse, but it’s only the cook coming out to swing a garbage bag into the dumpster. He doesn’t notice them. Or, if he does, he doesn’t say anything. Still, the moment is effectively shattered.

“Nothing like a little reminder of where you’re at to ruin the mood,” she says, gaze darting down the narrow alley. It’s a hot night, a little humid, but she feels like she’s been doused with very, very cold water.

“The cat pee smell doesn’t do it for you either?”

She huffs out a laugh and leans back against the cool brick. The way he’s looking at her? It twists her insides up. She swallows, suddenly overcome by shyness. “I should--I should probably go.”

“Sure,” he says, taking one big step back.

She falters for a moment, torn between finishing what she started and needing to get back to a reality where she’s Responsible Clarke again.

“I had a—good time,” she says, then almost slaps herself in the face. _I had a good time? Who are you, Clarke?_

“’Night, princess,” he says with a flirty smile, and she goes, only _just_ able to resist the urge to look back, mostly because she’s pretty sure if she did she wouldn’t be able to leave.

 

-

 

Raven takes her to the 24/7 diner down the street afterwards.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, slurping down a strawberry milkshake that really, really can’t be mixing well with all the alcohol they’ve had. “You look like you got jumped in that alley, not _macked_ on by the hottest stripper in the damn club.”

“This is my ‘beginning hangover’ face,” she replies, pushing her syrupy waffles around moodily, but they both know that’s bullshit. She sighs. “Honestly? I just feel--off. It’s been so long since I’ve hooked up with someone, you know? And checking that box off in an alley? Who am I?”

“A girl with needs,” Raven says, glaring at the group of frat boys sitting a few booths over who are being overloud. “Like, sure, I’ll admit it’s probably one of your sketchier moments, but who cares? You do you, Clarke.”

She sighs again, mind sliding back into the fantasy of Bellamy’s mouth on hers, the way she lit up in all the places he touched her. It’s a good one. “I wish he would’ve done me.”

Raven perks right up. “Let’s go back, then!”

“What? No! _No._ No.”

“They close in twenty. Come _on_ , Griffin. I’m sure he’s still there, hanging around the door. Moping, just like you are. Hoping his honey-haired maiden would come back to him.”

Clarke’s mouth threatens to curl up into a smile. She forces it into a scowl instead. “I’m not moping,” she insists, though it _does_ feel like she’s moping, just a little. “And we really should go home. All I want to do is to crawl in bed, _alone_ , and let this wonderful _almost_ moment live on in my dreams.”

“Ah, yes. This’ll be a story I tell your grandkids a million years from now,” she sighs dreamily. “It’ll be forever known as ‘the time auntie Raven took mommy to the strip club and she _almost_ got the ever-living lights banged out of her.’ My crowning BFF moment.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say. It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.”

Raven throws her hands up. “Lord, how am I friends with such a pessimist…”

“Because I helped you get out of that forced triple?”

“Must be, Clarke. Must be.”

 

-

 

Clarke flops face down into her bed when she makes it home, then rolls onto her back to kick out of her shoes and jeans. She almost fell asleep in the taxi her and Raven split, but now, as tired as she should be, she isn’t, wide awake and staring at the ceiling instead.

The lonely quiet of her apartment isn’t appealing at all, and she suddenly wishes she listened to Raven. Gone back to Renegades and taken Bellamy home with her. She knows, deep down in her bones, he would’ve fucked her right. _Hindsight’s always 20/20_ , she thinks.

She closes her eyes. Slipping into the fantasy is easy in the dark. She thinks of him on top of her, his talented tongue between her legs—she only got a brief taste, but she knows oral’s something he’d excel at. She skates her hand over her breast, down her stomach and then even further, her mind flicking through the scenario easily. He would eat her out forever, and sigh her name when he finally, finally sinks inside.

She swallows down a moan, two fingers circling her clit with intent, letting the pleasure build up along her spine. It doesn’t take her long to come at all, and she drifts off to sleep soon after, utterly content.

 

-

 

Clarke is epically hung over the next day, and a wreck at work. She thinks of Bellamy and how last night could have ended more than is probably appropriate, and ends up mislabeling an entire box of newly arrived books before she realizes what she’s done.

Raven sends her a row of laughing emojis and a solitary screw when she texts her. Clarke deserves it.

It’s only her in the bookstore now. Monty left on a coffee run a while ago and she doesn’t expect him back anytime soon. Grounders _,_ the coffee shop around the corner, hired a new barista. Clarke can’t remember the guy’s name for the life of her, but Monty talks about him all the time. She suspects he’s there right now, flirting, letting his overpriced coffee get cold.

The doorbell jingles when she’s stacking shelves in Science Fiction (some book about teenagers in a dystopian wasteland is all the rage this year). She peeks her head out to give the customary greeting, and then promptly swallows her tongue.

It’s Bellamy. Bellamy of the “ _I won’t see him ever again”_ variety. Boy, is she eating her words. He’s wearing a slouchy beanie over his dark hair, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows, but it’s definitely him. And he looks good, really good.

She, on the other hand, looks like death warmed over.

_Fuck_ , she thinks, a tick of panic ratcheting up her heart rate. She scoots back, careful to not topple over the box behind her, and fishes out her cell phone to send an emergency text to Raven. She doesn’t get to send it before Bellamy sees her hiding between the stacks, looking like a lunatic.

He stares for a beat, and then asks, “Do you work here?”

It’s not what she’s expecting to hear at all, and she gapes for a second, her reaction specifically catered to the surprised “Clarke?” she didn’t get. She straightens and puts her phone away, realizing with no small amount of horror that he must not remember her. Or, if he does, he’s choosing to ignore that fact. Either way, it feels like salt in a fresh wound. She feels indignant. Betrayed. She _masturbated_ to him last night!

“Yep, sure do,” she says, then stares back, waiting for a flicker of recognition on his end. Anything at all. But there’s nothing. _Wow_ , she thinks, embarrassed anger bubbling in her stomach. “Can I help you?” she asks, more than a little venom in her tone.

“I’m looking for a book.”

“You don’t say?” is absolutely _not_ what she should say to a customer, no matter that they forgot all about their hook-up from the night before, but it comes out anyway.

The expectant look on his face drops into a mask of frustration, and Clarke just thinks _good_. She clears her throat. “What book?”

He furrows his brow, like he’s maybe thinking of walking out or asking for a manager, but he shows her a slip of paper that he pulls out of his pocket anyway. The title is for some obscure historical text and not something they typically keep in stock. He grumbles unhappily when she tells him as much.

“This damn thing got added to my syllabus last minute,” he explains, voice gruffer than it was the night before. “I need it for a lecture tomorrow.”

Clarke blinks, mind whirling with the fact that he’s a student. _Of course he is_ , she thinks, feeling like the most judgmental asshole ever (at least when it comes to the fact that she assumed dancing was all he did). It’s a college town, and plenty of students worked odd jobs including, but not limited to, stripper. She knows Harper worked as a nightclub dancer for a while in freshman year, until the conflicting schedule wasn’t worth it anymore.

“Have you tried ordering it online?” she asks. “Overnighting it?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it worked,” he all but snaps. “Do you have it here or not?”

She grits her teeth. This grumpy version of Bellamy is such a contrast to the charming guy she kissed last night it almost makes her head spin. All that regret for not asking him home? Gone, and good riddance. She has half a mind to tell him to kiss her ass, but instead steps behind the counter and gets on the computer.

“We don’t, but there’s a store about fifteen minutes from here that has it,” she tells him, scribbling their address on a sticky-note. “I’ll call over for you, ask them to put it on hold.”

The irritated grimace he’s wearing melts away at her words into something like tolerance, and his cheek twitches like he’s not sure what to say. He takes the sticky-note, jaw working for a moment before he finally says, “Thanks.”

When he leaves, Clarke lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. And, despite her wounded pride, she sticks to her word and calls the other store.

She’s unproductive afterwards, stewing in her thoughts. It’s not like she and Bellamy had a connection beyond the physical. Hell, he danced on her and she took up his offer for a no-strings hook up afterwards. Nothing to it. They didn’t make small talk. They didn’t exchange numbers.

She thinks about the way he pushed her up against the brick wall and shudders, anger and attraction warring inside her gut. She never was into hate-sex (despite the epic fail of a three-time relationship with Lexa that could argue otherwise), but she thinks Bellamy might just be worth it.

“Still an asshole though,” she says aloud.

 

-

 

Raven screams in laughter when she hears the story later that night, and then does a very poor job of sobering up when Clarke threatens to kick her out of the apartment.

“I bet he remembered you,” she says, in between snorting giggles. “He probably didn’t want that to be his lead-in, you know?”

“Or he legitimately didn’t remember me,” Clarke counters hotly. “He was a total jerk, too.”

“Are you sure your scorned woman vibe wasn’t clouding your judgment?”

She frowns, and shoves the spoonful of ice cream she bought on her way home from work into her mouth. “You know nothing,” she mumbles around the soothing chocolate, and uses her big toe to start the next episode of Game of Thrones.

They both settle into the cushions as the credits start, and Raven keeps a running commentary throughout. They both read the books, and they have something of a running tally on what’s changed—a game that’s usually accompanied by shots of whatever bottom shelf liquor they could get their poor hands on, but tonight… tonight, Clarke is marking the differences with hunks of ice cream.

Every now and then, her attention is pulled away from the action on screen by Raven’s words and Bellamy’s stupidly handsome face. _Scorned woman vibe_ , she thinks. She’s not _scorned_.

She stabs her spoon into a crevice of caramel, irrationally angry that there aren’t any more cookie dough chunks left.

(Okay. Maybe she’s a little scorned.)

 

-

 

A week passes, and then two.

The respite from exams ends just as quickly as it came, and Clarke falls back into a steady state of _work-sleep-study_ , Bellamy and Renegades and all the could’ve-beens shoved to the back of her mind.

It’s on the second week where she ends up picking up one of Monty’s Friday shifts, even though she’s pressed for time as it is, because “Nathan got us tickets to some underground battle of the bands thing and _please_ , Clarke, I would owe you one!”

She grumbled a bit at the time, but she really didn’t mind. Monty’s her friend, and who was she to stand in the way of love? Plus, she needed to study, and the great thing about working at a bookstore is that, when it’s calm, no one says shit about her cracking a book open during her shift.

And it’s there, while she’s hunched over her O-chem book and hating life, when Bellamy shows up again. To say she’s surprised is an understatement and, by the way he stands at the entrance with his lips pressed together, she thinks he never meant to come back either.

He comes forward anyway, and slides the coffee he’s holding across the counter at her. It’s a white chocolate mocha, and smells divine. “For you.”

“For me?” she asks, confused. “What for?”

“For the book.”

She stares. She distinctly remembers being almost zero help. “I sent you somewhere else.”

“I can take the coffee back,” he grumbles, “if you don’t want it.”

“Let’s not get hasty,” she says, smiling a little before she remembers she’s supposed to _dislike_ the guy. She forces herself to look somewhat professional and scowl-y. “So, can I help you not find another book again?”

He huffs. It’s almost like a laugh. “Maybe next semester.”

Clarke’s not sure what to say to that. Maybe, if he were anyone else she would commiserate over last-minute syllabus additions, but all she can think about is the fact that he kissed her and forgot her. It makes her sour. She taps her fingers on the cardboard sleeve. “Well, thanks. For the coffee.”

He must pick up on the dismissal, because he bobs his head and shifts like he’s about to leave. At the last second, however, he twists back and scrubs a hand along his neck.

“The last time I was here,” he grounds out, eyes averted like it’s costing him something to speak, “I was an asshole.”

Clarke stomach swoops. _Oh no_ , she thinks.

“You, too. For the record,” he presses on, finally casting his gaze back up to meet hers.

“I was _not—“_ but further protest dies on her lips at the frank look he gives her. Okay, yes. She was an asshole. He was an asshole back. They were both assholes, but admitting it doesn’t solve anything, doesn’t get down to the _whys_. She grips the edge of the counter, hard, feeling like she’s about to vibrate right out of her skin. And what was he doing, apologizing, and then calling her out on her shitty behavior? Who did that?

The words she’s been holding back from the beginning get caught up in her throat, tangled behind the shell of low level _pissed off_ she’s been living in since she saw him last, and the question she’s been dying to ask comes out like verbal vomit: “Do you really not remember me?”

He frowns, like he’s worried about her state of wellbeing or something. “Sure,” he says, slowly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, for the love of— _no_. Before that. Literally the night before that. _Renegades_. Clarke. Is none of this ringing a bell for you?” She blushes, but it needs to be said: “We made out.”

The silence between them stretches on for so long Clarke’s starting to think she had the wrong guy this whole time. Then, right as she’s about to apologize for the whole thing, he takes a step back and gives her a quick up-down check. His mouth twitches a moment later, and recognition lights behind his eyes like a sunrise.

“You look different,” he says.

“Diff—“ she sputters and flounders for a second. _Different?_ “Different?”

“Yeah. No smoky eye thing, no braid. Different.”

“I didn’t get a fucking face transplant.” She flings her hands up the second the words fly forth, realizing how _clingy_ and desperate she sounds. “Okay—just. Let’s move on. This is college. It wouldn’t be fair if I made it to graduation without kissing someone during a brown-out session.”

“To be fair, you don’t really seem the type.”

“Don’t push it.” She takes a deep breath. “Friends?”

He looks more than a little dubious, but she extends her hand (a handshake is completely, 100% platonic—right?), and he takes it. His grip is firm and dry.

“Friends,” he agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke doesn’t expect much to come from her and Bellamy’s flimsy agreement, but three days later he comes through the bookstore door once more, two coffees in hand. He sets one down on the counter. It’s another white mocha.

“You’re back,” she blurts out, more than a little stunned. He’s wearing a beanie again, and a shirt that looks like it’s been through the wash one too many times.

Objectively, he’s the hottest guy she’s ever seen, and he completely ruins it when he says, “Friends, right?”

And, well, _right._ Friends.

She shakes off the lingering attraction as best she can and asks, “How did you know I liked white mochas?” 

“My roommate’s Miller,” he replies, almost sheepish. “Monty’s boyfriend.”

She snaps her fingers. “The cute barista!” Monty’s been surprisingly tight-lipped about the whole affair--unusually so, considering how much time he spent talking about the guy _before_ they got together.

“He’s an okay-looking guy, sure,” he says with a shrug, and Clarke can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of her.

From there, it’s almost too easy, their conversation sliding into gentle ribbing like they’ve known each other for months. She learns he’s a few years older than her, a history major in the same graduating class as her and her friends, and that he’s not _nearly_ as grouchy and grumpy as their second meeting seemed to imply. Eventually, he ends up divulging that he started at the strip club as a bartender, but switched over to dancing when he realized he could make triple in tips.

“It was a bejeweled, polyester blessing in disguise,” he says, and it’s the little off-handed comments like that that has Clarke glad they both gave one another a chance to start over.

In fact, she’s almost sad to see him go when he begs off for a study session, and somehow, in that goodbye exchange, Clarke promises to visit him at the coffee shop in return. “I’ll bring you a book,” she says. “You liked _Twilight_ right?” 

“Top five faves. Team Edward for life,” he drawls, all dry sarcasm.

Clarke doesn’t have the heart to confess that she’s a werewolf girl through and through.

 

-

 

Two months into their relationship--correction: _friendship_ \--Clarke realizes that she and Bellamy only see each other at the bookstore or the coffee shop. It’s not a big deal, really, but she can’t help but feel like maybe she strong-armed him into hanging out with her. Despite their rocky start, she learned pretty quickly that Bellamy was a giant marshmallow, and continuing a one-sided friendship to spare someone’s feelings was entirely in the realm of things he might do. 

She’s currently at Grounders, watching Bellamy close up shop--mostly because she’s been sexiled by Raven, and partly because Bellamy is awesome at leaving her alone when she has work to do (and the free pastries he brings by don’t hurt, either). She shuts her laptop lid with a flick of her wrist.

“Are you ashamed of me?” she asks, and Bellamy pauses wiping down the counters to shoot her a puzzled look.

“Should I be?”

“I mean--is it weird that we only see each other here or the bookstore?” 

“It’s weird to mention it, maybe.” He goes back to wiping. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to changing it up.” 

Which is how she ends up inviting him to next week’s Thirsty Thursdays to meet the rest of the gang. She hardly ever takes the invite herself, but he doesn’t need to know that. “And you have to make sure Monty and Miller come, okay?”

Bellamy laughs. “I’ll try. Can I bring someone?” 

She nods, because _of course_ he can, what kind of question is that? They’re friends, it’s a group outing, and Bellamy is totally, absolutely, more than welcome to bring whoever he wants. Absolutely.

“You’re killing me,” Raven says, when Clarke very _casually_ drops mention of her and Bellamy’s conversation the next day. “Like, you’re so far in denial I might as well call you Cleopatra.” 

“We’re _friends_ , Raven,” she insists. “Friends.” 

“Yeah, except you _never_ come out with us, and you’re butthurt this ‘friend’ of his is gonna end up being some secret girlfriend he’s never mentioned,” she says, raising her eyebrows in clear judgment. “You’re jealous, and you want him. Just admit it.” 

“I’m not jealous, and I don’t want him,” she says, but her conviction sounds weak, even to her own ears.

 

-

 

Thursday comes quickly. The bar is packed. Every time she’s jostled, Clarke’s rudely reminded of why she typically avoids going out on daily special nights. Worse yet, she’s nervous.

Just as she’s telling herself to calm down and relax, she sees Monty and Miller, and behind them, Bellamy. And next to _him_ is a total knockout. Long, dark hair; mischievous smile. Under normal circumstances, Clarke would _totally_ give a thought or two to chatting her up, but Bellamy looks down at her like she hung the moon, and she elbows him in the ribs with a grin. It’s the someone. Clarke feels like something inside of her shrivels up and dies at the sight, and she drops the hand she raised up to call them over, but she’s already been seen.

She turns to the bar and orders a double shot of vodka, and is just downing it when she feels someone hovering at her side.

“Rough day?”

She grimaces at the afterburn, and says, “You don’t know the half of it.” 

Bellamy just laughs at her and tugs his gorgeous girlfriend over by the elbow.

“Hi, I’m Clarke,” she says, reaching a hand out before Bellamy can introduce them. It feels like ripping off a bandaid.

The girlfriend quirks her eyebrow, and glances up at Bellamy before taking Clarke’s hand. “Octavia,” she says. Then, playfully, “I’ve heard a _lot_ about you.”

Bellamy scratches at the back of his neck. “O, c’mon.”

Clarke flushes, embarrassed, wondering what story Bellamy divulged: the strip club hook-up, the altercation at the bookstore, or the girl who occasionally takes up space in the corner of Grounders. None of them really paint her in an amazing light. “It’s great to finally meet you,” she says, minding her manners, even if the words are a lie. “So where did you two meet?” 

Octavia tilts her head, like she’s trying to puzzle something out. “I caught a cab over,” she says. To Bellamy, “Lincoln’s gonna be here any second, so behave, okay?”

He grumbles something in response, and Octavia slips away into the crowd a minute later to meet another man in a very unchaste liplock. Clarke, in the meantime, is very, very confused.

“Is that--normal?” she asks, because there are such things as open relationships, and she’s not here to judge. 

“I wish it weren’t,” he replies, and flags down the bartender for a stiff drink.

Clarke shrugs, helpless. The last thing she wants to do is talk about Bellamy’s relationship troubles, but she forces herself to be sympathetic. It’s what friends _do_. Right? Right. “Have you told her it bothers you?”

“We argued about it when she started dating him, sure,” he admits. “But she’s an adult. And Lincoln’s… okay.” 

“Wow. High praise.” She bumps her shoulders with his, more than ready to move onto a different topic. “Wanna play beer pong?”

They team up against Raven and Wick when a table clears, which is where Clarke discovers Bellamy is absolutely _trash_ at the game. He misses another shot--his fourth in a row--and she groans. Both Raven and Wick make their return shots, and Clarke picks up her cup with a glare. They’re about to lose. 

“My _back_ is hurting from carrying this team!” she shouts, right into Bellamy’s face. She may or may not be kinda drunk. Which, from the way he’s been playing, is 100% his fault. 

“I’m doing just fine,” he says, and then proceeds to _not_ plunk a ball in some beer. He curses.

“You suck.” She presses a laugh against his shoulder, and pulls aways quickly when she sees Octavia’s assessing look. “You’re lucky I’m a beer pong champ.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, squeezing her into a side hug, and Clarke resolutely doesn’t look him in the eyes. “Really lucky.”

She swallows, her mood plummeting rapidly, and she stubbornly pushes away the drunken epiphany that looms on her fuzzy consciousness. When Bellamy notices the downturn--because of _course_ he notices--she blames it on their terrible beer pong showing. He looks at her like he doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t press. 

After they’ve had their asses solidly handed to them, Bellamy offers to pay for the next round of drinks, as he should, and it’s while he’s at the bar that Octavia crowds up into Clarke’s personal space with a look like murder.

“I like you, Clarke,” she says, slowly, “don’t make me regret it.” 

She swallows. “It’s not--like that. Between us.”

“Well, if it ever _is_ like that… consider this your little sister shovel talk.”

“ _Sister_ ,” Clarke blurts out, feeling like the air has been knocked right out of her. Bellamy’s favorite topic is his sister, how important she is to him, and she feels more than a little stupid for not putting two and two together. Their resemblance isn’t exact, but it’s uncanny enough that she should’ve realized. _Oh god_ , she thinks, and from the way Octavia’s wrinkling her nose, she must be thinking the exact same thing. 

She’s barely saved from making an even bigger ass of herself by Bellamy popping up with their drinks, looking warily between Clarke and Octavia. Octavia, his _little sister_. 

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Yup,” Clarke says, dying inside a little. 

“Mmhm, just clearing things up,” Octavia says, deceptively sweet. Then, “I want waffles.”

 

-

 

Clarke wakes up the next morning on a couch that is not her own. Bellamy is in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon is thick in the air. She panics for a second, but the rest of the night comes back in a wave: going to Denny’s, eating more waffles than she probably should have, bitching about her crappy relationship with her mother and then feeling terrible when she remembered that Bellamy and Octavia had been on their own for a long time; stumbling back to Bellamy’s apartment and promptly passing out after sitting down. It was a wild ride. 

She sits up with a groan. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re completely unaffected, aren’t you? You’re one of _those_ people. Asshole.”

“I can’t help that my liver is superior to yours.”

She wants to toss a pillow at him, and barely refrains from doing so. She helps herself to his bathroom instead, splashes water on her face and tries to wrangle her hair into a style that doesn’t resemble a bird’s nest. It’s a useless endeavor, anyway, and she joins Bellamy at the breakfast nook to eat all her bacon and sneak a few pieces off his plate, too. He glares at her each time, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Thanks for inviting me out,” he says, after she offers to do the dishes--the least she can do for crashing on his couch and eating his food.

She shrugs. Her hands are covered in soap suds, and he’s leaned up against the counter in sweatpants and a tank top, looking at her like it’s completely normal for her to be standing in his apartment in day old club clothes, smudged eyeliner and all. She looks away. “Glad you came. It’s actually the first time I’ve been out, really _out_ , since--well.” She laughs a little. “Since we met.”

“Ouch,” he says. “It was _that bad_ , huh?”

“God, you have _no_ idea. Completely put me off alcohol for a whole two months.” 

“Jesus. That’s like seven years in college kid years.”

Clarke snorts, and it’s right there, with her hands in the sink, that she has to finally admit it: she’s in it, deep, and it’s a little too late to renege on the handshake that put her in this predicament in the first place. 

For a second, she thinks about coming clean. It would be easy. Admitting that she was jealous when she thought Octavia was _someone_ , that she clearly wants his someone to be _her._ There has to be a part of him that’s still a little attracted to her, considering how they first met, but--

“You alright?” he asks, breaking into her thoughts, and she realizes she’s been rinsing the same plate for a little too long.

She nods, flinging out an excuse about her hangover. It’s only a half-lie, but it just spurs Bellamy into making her a disgusting hangover cure concoction she’s pretty sure is actually his revenge for shit-talking his beer pong skills the night before. He walks her to the door afterwards, and she leaves without saying anything, heart heavier than it’s been in a long while.

 

-

 

School picks up again. Unlike last time, Clarke’s apartment becomes the go-to study spot… mostly against her will. Octavia shows up on a Wednesday afternoon, complaining about Descartes and dualism. She’s been texting Clarke steadily since Thirsty Thursdays, but it’s the first time she’s been over, and Clarke’s not entirely sure how Octavia got her address in the first place.

Jasper and Monty (with Miller in tow) pop up soon after, along with a few other students Clarke has never met before.

“This is Monroe and Harper,” Monty introduces, pointing, “and that’s Sterling.” 

“We’re trying a study group,” Jasper explains, “like in Community. I feel like I’d make a pretty good Jeff.” 

Harper boos, and Octavia tosses an eraser at him.

Clarke escapes to her room when the study group descends into an argument on who would play who, and doesn’t realize until she’s halfway through her bio lecture notes that she would have been well in her rights to kick them all out. But it’s nice having people around, and there’s even a box of leftover pizza in the kitchen when she leaves her room to join them.

**_all your kids are at my place_** _,_ she texts Bellamy, wondering why he isn’t here. Jasper’s started a movie--something Marvel--and everyone’s scattered around the room, presumably for the long haul, and it feels like the only person missing is him.

He doesn’t text back for a long time, not until the credits are rolling and everyone’s left: **_Sorry I didn’t reply earlier. I was at work. Hope they didn’t bother you too much._**

_Work_ , she thinks. The coffee shop closes at nine, leaving Renegades as the alternative. She hasn’t thought about the club in a while. Clarke swallows, a unwanted wash of jealousy getting caught in her throat. She’s not that person. She doesn’t want to _be_ that person. But here she is. The thing of it is… Clarke is terrible at romantic relationships. Maybe even regular relationships, too. She hasn’t talked to Wells in over a year, she dodges her mother’s phone calls like it’s a full-time job, her and Lexa blew up spectacularly. Three times. And Raven--well, she’s the best thing that came out of Clarke’s failed freshman romance with Finn. She doesn’t do casual, and the thought of commitment makes her skin itch.

Or, at least, it used to.

**_they behaved_** , she sends back, and locks her phone and flings it between the couch cushions before she types something crazy like _come over and i won’t_.

 

-

 

It’s another quiet month before Octavia says, rather bluntly, “You know he’s gone on you, too, right?”

Clarke lifts her head from her textbook and shoots Octavia a confused look. 

“My brother,” she presses. She has a rainbow collection of highlighters spread out on the coffee table, and has been color-coding her notes and flashcards all afternoon. Clarke’s not sure where the topic has come from, it’s pretty out of left field, but she shoots Raven a betrayed glare, anyway. 

Raven shrugs. “Hey, I’m innocent,” she says.

“Everyone knows,” Octavia says, then amends, “Well, everyone but you and him.”

“You do know how Bellamy and I met, right?” Clarke asks, slowly.

Octavia rolls her eyes. “If that’s your super unsubtle way of asking if I know about the club, yeah, I do. Just… trust me. Bell is all about chivalry and shit. He’s not gonna go for it unless you give him the signal.” 

Clarke frowns. “We’re just friends.”

Octavia turns to Raven. “Is she serious?” 

“As a heart attack. Unfortunately.”

Clarke’s frown deepens. “I’m _right_ here.”

 

-

 

The problem is, since Octavia’s brand of blunt, Clarke’s been analyzing every interaction she has with Bellamy. Every text message he sends, every lingering look or touch--she wonders if, maybe, she’s read the whole situation wrong. That he’s in the exact same boat as her, thinking of that fateful handshake in the bookstore, not wanting to be _that guy_ who presses for something that’s literally never been on the table. He would do that, too, she thinks. He might be a jerk, but he respects boundaries.

Octavia said to give him the signal, but Clarke doesn’t even know where to begin. 

“You’re staring.”

_I’m trying to give you the signal_ , she thinks. “This is my place,” she says instead, “I can do whatever I want.”

Bellamy smirks, motions to his face. “It’s nice, I know.” 

She shrugs. “I’ve seen better,” she says, but that’s a lie. She hasn’t. His hair is messy tonight, a little shorter than it was months ago. He’s still the best looking guy she’s seen in forever, attraction only made worse by maximum exposure, and she really wants to kiss him again.

_I’m giving you the signal_ , she tries to tell him telepathically, desperately. _Do a cartwheel if you hear me._

He yawns a second later, and stretches a little, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of tanned stomach.

She frowns, weirdly disappointed. “I’m getting a beer. You want one?” 

He looks at her like she’s crazy, probably because he knows she has a pretty strict Monday through Friday alcohol ban when exams are around the corner. “Sure,” he says, slowly tapping his pen against his thigh.

She escapes to the kitchen. All they have is Bud Light, remnants from a study session turned party a week or so ago, and Bellamy wrinkles his nose when she hands a bottle over. 

Clarke tries to smile. Normally, she would tease him relentlessly for his snobbery. He and Miller tried their hands at homebrewing for a few months, much to the horror of everyone’s taste buds, and they both let it go to their heads. And, as usual, Bellamy notices, deliberately moving his study materials to the side with a tiny frown.

“Everything alright?” he asks, scooting an inch closer to her on the couch. 

She takes a deep breath, a prick of _what the fuck am I doing?_ tingling at the back of her neck. _Just go for it_ , she thinks. “We never talked about--” she swallows, tries again, “We never talked about how we met.” 

He sighs messily and drags his hand through his hair. “Are you uncomfortable?” he asks. “With me? I know you said ‘friends’, but--”

She darts her hand out to cover his, a quick squeeze before she pulls it back. “No,” she says, “I’m actually really glad we met--how we did. And everything that’s come after.” 

“But?”

“ _But._ ” She pauses for a beat. “I’ve been thinking--I want to be more. Than friends.”

He just stares, and her heart drops.

“Which is, um, completely my own problem.” She clears her throat. “Like, Octavia was under this crazy assumption that you reciprocated and I’ve been beating myself up about shaking your stupid hand and going ‘friends?’ because, wow, I’m rambling, Bellamy. I don’t ramble--” 

And then she’s not talking, period, because Bellamy’s hand is cradling the back of her head and his lips are against hers. It’s not a perfect kiss, but she melts into it anyway.

He pulls back a fraction. “I thought you wanted to be--just friends, this whole time, so I never said anything. But I really wanted to,” he says, and he’s close, so close his breath ghosts over her cheek. He smells like wood pine and faint cologne, like all the good things in life, and it costs Clarke nothing to press up onto her knees and kiss him again.

It’s tentative at first, just a dry press of mouth-to-mouth, but it doesn’t take long for it to turn hungry, and when he turns his face away to pant against her cheekbone, she whispers, “I never wanted to be just friends.”

He groans, and pulls her close, his strong hands sliding under her thighs to lift her up against his hips. She spears her fingers into his hair and slants her mouth over his, moans quietly against him. It feels natural, all the low level tension that been running in her veins from day one spilling out with every touch and every kiss.

By the time they make it to the bedroom, they’re both naked and Clarke’s neck is covered in stubble burn. They tumble into bed together, Clarke laughing a little as she bounces on the mattress after he’s dropped her. Bellamy’s there a beat later, hovering over her, just looking, and she draws her hands up over his shoulders. It feels like forever passes before he meets her for a kiss once more, but this time it’s sweeter, slower; they take their time, and Clarke’s nearly a shaking mess when she reaches for the condoms in her nightstand, slapping an entire row uselessly at his chest.

Clarke has a split second to think while he rips the packet open, her breath catching in her throat. Bellamy is the first guy--probably the first person, period--she’s really gotten to _know_ before getting to this step, her other romantic endeavors a much quicker burn, with a much quicker crash.

“Hey,” Bellamy says, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She tilts her head back, swallows thickly. “Hey.”

“Where did you go just now?”

“My own head,” she says, shy. “Just… promise this won’t change anything.” 

“It won’t change the good parts,” he says, quietly, and it’s exactly what she needs to hear.

She lets out a low moan when he finally presses inside of her, and they rock together, again and again, until she’s shaking and clutching at his waist. It feels right, so right, being with him like this that she can’t even believe for a second that she thought sex would ruin them. She comes when he thumbs her clit, and she lies back, feeling like a cat sunning itself in a sunbeam, reaching back to press her hands against the headboard to roll her hips into Bellamy’s until he comes inside of her with a broken off groan.

They twist away, Clarke more than sated, whole. Bellamy disposes the condom in the trash bin under her desk, and flops back into bed. She hooks her feet over his legs, laughing at the rub of sock fabric against her skin.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“You’re wearing socks,” she says, worming her way under his arm. “And we just had sex.”

“We did.”

She grins. “Really good sex.”

He presses a quick kiss to her hairline, and hugs her close to his chest. They fall asleep like that, together, and when Clarke wakes up the next morning, he’s still there. She knows they have a lot to talk about still, but for now, she’s more than happy to bask in the afterglow.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry?


End file.
